Four months without anyone accusing me of gaslighting them. Four months without anyone calling me a narcissist. Four months without anyone implying I’m a creep, a pervert, a manipulator, a liar, a bully, a monster, or some sort of emotional abuser.
Four months without being told that people secretly don’t like me. That her friends don’t like me. That my friends only tolerate me. That everyone can supposedly see what I’m really like.
And that absence says a lot.
Because those things weren't normal feedback. They weren’t honest observations. They weren't people independently reaching the same conclusion about me. They happened in one specific context. They happened when I challenged her. When I questioned her behavior. When I pointed out the contradictions. When I said, “That didn’t happen like that.” When I said, “You did say that.” When I said, “You can’t keep doing this and then acting like I’m the problem.” when I was promised change that never arrived. When I DARED to question her behaviour or motives. They were ALL reactive!!!
That was when the labels came out. Gaslighter. Narcissist. Creep. Pervert. Controlling. Unsafe. Obsessed. Delusional. Too intense. Too emotional. Too much. Not normal. Broken.
The accusation was never really the point. The point was to punish me for noticing.
I would raise something real, and instead of dealing with it, she would attack the person raising it. Me. If I said she was lying, suddenly I was abusive. If I remembered what actually happened, suddenly I was gaslighting her. If I reacted to being hurt, I was unstable. If I wanted accountability, suddenly I was controlling. If I pointed out a pattern, suddenly I was a narcissist. If I wanted basic respect, suddenly I was demanding, needy, creepy, pathetic, or somehow dangerous.
It was never about whether the accusation was true. It was about making the cost of confronting her so high that I would eventually stop doing it.
And for a long time, it worked.
Because those words stick. You hear “narcissist” enough times and you start checking yourself constantly. You hear “gaslighter” enough times and you start doubting your own memory. You hear “creep” or “pervert” enough times and you start feeling contaminated by someone else’s disgust, even when you know you haven’t done anything to deserve it. You hear “everyone thinks this about you” and you start looking at normal people differently, wondering what they’ve been told, wondering what they secretly believe.
But then life carries on. You spend time around other people. You talk to friends. You work. You deal with customers. You have normal conversations. You disagree with people. You annoy people sometimes. You get annoyed sometimes.
And somehow, strangely, nobody else says it.
Nobody else says, “You’re gaslighting me.” Nobody else says, “You’re a narcissist.” Nobody else says, “You’re a creep.” Nobody else says, “Everyone secretly hates you.” Nobody else reaches for the same weapons. In fact, everyone else enjoys spending time with you.
And after a while, the pattern becomes obvious.
It wasn’t that everyone else was finally being polite. It wasn’t that I magically became a different person overnight. It was that those accusations belonged to her. To that dynamic. To her defense system. To her need to reverse blame whenever I got too close to the truth.
The things I said then were true. They were true when I said them. They were true when she attacked me for saying them. They are still true now.
The only thing that has changed is that I’m no longer standing close enough for her to throw those words at me.
And no, I don’t miss that behaviour. I don’t miss the accusations. I don’t miss the twisting. I don’t miss being made to feel like some disgusting version of myself that only existed when she needed to avoid responsibility.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her.
I miss the beauty. I miss the kindness. I miss the calm moments. I miss the intimacy. I miss having someone there when I came home. I miss the ordinary things that made life feel softer. The presence. The familiarity. The feeling that there was someone in the house, someone connected to me, someone I could turn toward. I miss the shared moments and financial freedom 2 incomes brought.
That is the difficult part. Not missing the damage, but still missing the person. Not wanting the cruelty back, but still grieving the warmth that came with it. Not wanting to be accused, attacked, diminished, or made to doubt myself, but still missing the version of her that made the rest of it so hard to walk away from. Being terrified of seeing her in case I collapse in a pile nervous system reaction, into tears.
Because it wasn’t all bad. That’s the problem. If it had been all bad, it would be simple.
But it wasn’t simple. It was beautiful and cruel. Warm and unsafe. Loving and punishing. Calm one moment, vicious the next. And I think that’s why it took so much out of me. I wasn’t just trying to leave the bad. I was trying to survive losing the good as well.